


Starting Over

by mouseratstan



Series: No Longer Yours [2]
Category: Parks and Recreation
Genre: Angst, F/M, Jealousy, Not A Happy Ending, Post-breakup, Regret, sad drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:41:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24873232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mouseratstan/pseuds/mouseratstan
Summary: "He never should've come to Pawnee. Not now, and definitely not back then. His own sanity wouldn't be shattered on the floor right now if he had never met Leslie Knope."Coda to Old Friend. Based on the song "I Want You" by Mitski.
Relationships: Leslie Knope/Ben Wyatt, Leslie Knope/OC
Series: No Longer Yours [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1799758
Comments: 7
Kudos: 13





	Starting Over

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ugly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ugly/gifts).



He should've left Pawnee.

He was very capable of doing it once, all those years ago, but for some reason now he feels stuck here. Glued in place, incapable of moving on when he really needs to. It's just his luck that he only felt like he could leave when he should've stayed.

But Ben is so numb that his legs don't seem to work, and he sits in his car begging his body to let him turn it on and drive away, but he can't do it. He can't lift his arm, can't press on the gas, can't drive backwards out of this town that broke his heart.

_ I need to go. Please, let me go. _

Because she's gone. He drove miles and miles to tell her how he feels, to stand in front of her and tell her he regrets leaving her in the midst of their breakup all those years ago. And she was sweet, so much kinder than he deserved, leaving him alone with just a handshake, the feel of her engagement ring pressing into his skin still haunting him.

Ben royally fucked up. And now it's too late, and he’ll never get her back again.

It takes him too long to get his car on and to start driving, but even when he does, he's not moving in the direction he should be. No, he seems intent on torturing himself further, sinking further into this regret, because he's only driving further into Pawnee. And it's dark by the time he reaches his destination, even darker when he finds the courage to walk in.

The Snakehole Lounge is exactly the same as it used to be. The bright lights, the dancing, loud voices from those who are a little too drunk, and for a moment Ben forgets who he is, and it's five years ago again, and he's younger and has a crush that he doesn't know what to do with.

He collapses on a bar seat and it feels so eerily similar to that night they all lost themselves on SnakeJuice, when Leslie asked him to dance and he was, maybe, an idiot for saying no. When he spent the whole night drinking and watching her and wondering where he went wrong, wondering how he could fix this, wondering what he was doing here at all.

“Can I get you something?” the bartender asks him, and for once Ben kind of wishes SnakeJuice was still around.

“Something strong,” he replies. “I don't care what it is, as long as it fucks me up.”

“You got something you're trying to forget, man? You look a little rough.”

Ben grimaces, accepting the tiny shot glass the bartender pushes over to him. “You could say that.” And it says something, really, that Ben is able to take his shot without so much as a wince, not bothered by its bitterness or the burning in his throat. “I'm gonna need a couple more of those.”

The bartender shakes his head, but does as he's asked, Ben forcing shots down his throat in rapid succession. Because what else are you supposed to do when you lose the love of your life except get ridiculously drunk? He doesn't care how much it'll hurt him, or how much he throws up later, he just knows he needs to drink enough that the only things he’ll be able to focus on are the bright lights and music and dizziness all around. He needs to drink enough that there are no thoughts, no pain, just some vague numbness that dulls him down to a silent shell, something he won't remember in the morning, something fleeting.

He wobbles in his seat as he spins around, taking his next shot, wanting to watch the Snakehole Lounge in action. Everything is the same, but nothing is at the same time. Ben still has his shaky hands and his skinny ties and his calculator, he is the same, but Pawnee has moved on without him. Where once, he could look out at the crowd and name half the people here, now he recognizes no one. Not a single name comes to mind, but they all know each other. They all laugh and hold hands and dance together, while Ben is at the bar, trying to remember a time when this place felt like home.

When he first sees her, he convinces himself it's a drunken hallucination. The crowd parts and her hair is shining, and it's like five years ago. She's drunk and laughing and she's even dressed in red, dancing with a man that isn't Ben. And he is in a corner, drinking, staring, once again wondering what he's doing here.

And all he can think is  _ I want you, I want you. _ Just like he did so long ago.

Nothing has really changed.

Except for her. Because it only takes Ben a few minutes to realize that Leslie really is here, drinking and dancing in the Snakehole Lounge, and it's not some memory of a simpler time. And the man she's dancing with isn't Jean-Ralphio, but the man she intends to marry.

The alcohol twists in Ben’s stomach, and he already feels like throwing up.

“Bartender?” he slurs, not moving his eyes from the dance floor. “A Miller Lite, please.”

“Maybe some water?—”

_ “Beer.  _ Get me beer. You're a bartender, not a caretaker.” The words are viscous, slipping from his tongue without second thought, and he's not satisfied until his beer is open and the liquid is soothing the fire in his throat. Because a Miller Lite is his only constant here, the only thing that can be  _ his  _ and not Pawnee’s, they can't take that from him.

_ Everybody knows— that's your drink. _

It's Tom's voice in his mind that does him in, and his bottle slips, shattering on the floor, but the music is too loud for anyone to notice it. And it's fucked up,  _ it's so fucked up and unfair  _ that Ben can't even have a beer without Pawnee in his mind. It's unfair that Pawnee took everything from him, even his one shot at having a decent life, and he’ll never escape it again.

He never should've come. Not now, and definitely not back then. His own sanity wouldn't be shattered on the floor right now if he had never met Leslie Knope.

And he can't take his goddamn eyes off her. Her fiancé, the man she plans to marry— Ben doesn't even recognize him. He's tall, but not so tall that he can't lean over to press a kiss to Leslie’s lips. He looks strong, his arms wrapped around her waist and his fingers curling into her hair, and he's blond. Not as bright as hers, because no one can shine like her, but enough that he knows they'll make beautiful blonde babies that will have all of Leslie’s passion and energy and commitment.

_ And it's the end of the fucking world. _

It's all his fault, and he has no one to blame but himself. His gut churns with jealousy as he brings another new beer to his lips, unable to tear his eyes away as Leslie and her fiancé dance together. They are so enamored in each other, it's like the entire world is just the two of them. He could walk right up to them and she wouldn't even notice, wouldn't even see him, and that's when he really starts to spiral.

_ I want you, I want you. _

_ I miss you. _

_ Please don't leave me like this. _

The tears in his eyes blur his vision, and his head spins, the world so much more fuzzy than before. The music fades into an intense pounding in his ears that matches the beat of his heart as he tries to look around and realizes that he's lost her— she and her fiancé are gone. And it's a terrible idea, the worst idea ever, but suddenly he's pushing himself up and stumbling through the crowd, desperately searching for her.

He thinks he's calling her name. All he knows is that his throat burns and his head feels like it's caving in and the crowd keeps pushing him, unable to find his way. He's had so much to drink and none of the alcohol is doing what he wants it to, because he's not forgetting, and his head is not empty. 

No, he's crying. The sobs rip from his throat.

_ Please come back. _

_ Don't leave me. _

_ I want you. _

It's too long before he finds her, his fingers fumbling with the door to the Snakehole Lounge bathroom. He has every intention of throwing up, collapsing on the tile, but he isn't even granted that luxury. The door pushes open and Ben only catches a glimpse of pale skin and wandering hands, and he's falling,  _ he's falling.  _

Leslie and her fiancé are both so far gone, too drunk on alcohol and love to see him, the two of them crowded into an open stall. Her blouse is gone and his hands are big as he caresses her skin, fingers reaching for the clasp of her bra like he’s done this a million times before, like he's memorized her. She moans into his mouth, shivers as one of his hands slides down between them, and Ben feels as good as dead.

_ Please, no. _

_ “Yes,”  _ she whispers, breathy and vulnerable, pulling her lips from her fiancé's so she can gasp, gripping his shoulders like a lifeline. Ben can see the muscles in his forearm, snaked between them, sliding back and forth, and he wants to leave, he needs to go, he can't be here.

He also kind of wants to punch this guy for touching her, for making her moan a name that isn't his, his anger white hot in the pit of his stomach. He stares, transfixed and incapable of moving, from under one of the sinks, as Leslie pulls herself down to her knees in front of her fiancé, tugging at his belt and ripping open the button.

_ Please don't do this. Not this. _

_ I can't do this. _

_ I miss you. _

She opens her mouth and ducks her head down and that's the last thing Ben can see before he's falling through the floor, and everything is dark. He doesn't remember where he is, only that everything hurts, and he feels like he's dying, and the only thing he knows is that nothing is ever going to be okay again.

He needs to scream.

The next several moments are a blur of pain in his chest and flashing colors and a scream of his name that sounds suspiciously like  _ her  _ voice, but he doesn't turn around. The cold air of the outside hits him suddenly, and he leans against his car, fumbling to get it open just so he can climb in the backseat, bite down on the fabric of the front seat, and  _ scream,  _ scream his head off, scream until his throat is raw and his jaw is locked and he thinks he might never speak normally again.

_ “I love you,”  _ he cries into the open space, where it's quiet and no one can hear him.  _ “I love you.” _

_ I love you and I miss you and I want you. _

_ And I don't want to be fucking alive anymore without you. _

He doesn't know how he's survived this long without her. All he knows is he is nothing to her now, just a name on a long list of men who have hurt her, and he doesn't want to start over. He just wants to take it all back. He just wants to  _ feel something. _

He falls out of his car and scrapes his knees on the gravel, and as he throws up all the contents of his stomach on all fours outside the Snakehole Lounge, he knows he can't possibly get any more pathetic tonight, so he might as well go all out.

And when he wakes up the next morning in an unfamiliar bed, next to a blonde woman he's never met before, he tells himself it's okay. He's just starting over.


End file.
